


i'm 19, and i'm on fire

by iiiOpheliaiii



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Post-Season/Series 05, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:27:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24781546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iiiOpheliaiii/pseuds/iiiOpheliaiii
Summary: Finn knows that everyone around here knows who he is. They know it out of fear, fear of Tommy, fear of Arthur, and by proxy, fear of him, although he’s no member of parliament, though Arthur’s snarling rages scare him too, a little.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 29





	i'm 19, and i'm on fire

Must be unbelievably drunk, unbelievably stupid, or both, because you don’t try to rob a Shelby with a knife, and Finn knows that everyone around here knows who he is. They know it out of fear, fear of Tommy, fear of Arthur, and by proxy, fear of him, although he’s no member of parliament, though Arthur’s snarling rages scare him too, a little.

Just a little. Arthur’s his brother.

He once cut a man’s face almost clean off, for no reason, no reason only drink, and maybe the war. The company.

Finn drinks too, sniffs white powder off wooden tables too, but he just gets giddy, warm, feels his brain melt out his ears and his throat burn. It’s not like Arthur, who breaks the bones of fingers, the backs off chairs.

It’s not like Arthur, but when the stranger comes at him, drunken and messy, he slices on instinct, because it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before. But he’s had a drink, three, himself, and he’s just on the wrong side of sober, and the man, face obscured by darkness – that is what saves his life, later – opens up a red gash first, on the right side of his chest, near the collarbone.

And yeah. Alright. Yeah.

It doesn’t hurt for a second and Finn nearly grins as he slashes the attacker across the face, again, and one last time for good measure.

After the fact, Finn watches the fucker as he staggers away, clutching his face, howling.

His shirt, now, is hot and wet, sticking to the torn-up skin.

The second ends, and then it does hurt, it fucking burns like hot oil, the flames licking at him, and he resists the urge, with gritted teeth and short, aching gasps, to cry out.

He can’t tell how much blood it is but he’s close to home.

He’s starting to feel sick, nausea clashing with the fire in his chest, and he goes to swallow but the spit’s too thick, so he opens his mouth, lets it all spill out, barely bends over so it all goes down his chin, his neck, and with his mouth still open he moans, disgusted.

He wasn’t cold, but now he feels the chill in the air, cool against his face while liquid heat spills from the wound. He knocks his temple, cheekbone, half his face against the freezing stone all the Small Heath houses are made of as he stumbles against someone’s wall.

When he finally, finally gets back to what was once an always full house he lets himself rest against the door, forehead pressing into it, whole body leaning forward so his neck’s at a strange angle and, choking back the pain that’s trying to make itself known in his throat, he’s raising his left hand, numb, heavier than usual, and pounding against the wood. Again. A third time.

A fourth time, and then he thinks, fuck, there’s no one home. He feels panicked about that for a minute before the feeling is stifled by a thick blanket of dreamy indifference.

The bleeding isn’t stopping, and he hadn’t eaten much during the day, before they’d started on the whiskey. He’s tired.

Finn’s not usually tired, running on a mixture of youth and cocaine and the sharp, sharp want to be a part of anything. He’s tired now.

But then the door is opening. It’s Polly.

The door opens inwards before he’s ready so she catches him, “Jesus fucking Christ, Finn,” and she doesn’t look at him anymore than that, she just grabs him and closes the door and leads him into the kitchen.

His eyelids, mouth, limbs have all become distant things, hard to feel or move.

Polly’s talking, more to herself than him as she sets him down in a chair, so he doesn’t listen. He has no more choice than a doll, is no more help, as she pulls him out of his coat, throws his torn waistcoat to the side, unbuttons his shirt.

It’s half dark in the kitchen, the pale yellow glow of the failing lightbulb not enough to keep the night away.

Polly, Finn thinks, has been making everyone nervous since Aberama. She’s volcanic, still and serene right up until she’s spitting sulphur, hissing and furious, with everyone but especially with Tommy. She’s making Finn nervous now, with her steady hands and her silence.

She doesn’t seem to care, but then she hasn’t for a while, not really, not since Michael showed up. Finn doesn’t give a fuck, obviously, since he’s busy, but.

And suddenly all the blood’s gone and his chest his all wrapped up, white bandages and white gauze. Polly’s frowning as she wipes his face.

She grabs his jaw, locks his eyes onto her own.

“I said what the fuck happened, Finn.”

He would answer properly, but he’s tired. He’s thirsty.

“Hmm.”

The fingers tighten, pressure on the flesh digging into his gums, his teeth.

“Some fucking idiot, I dunno, Pol. I’ll get him.”

Polly doesn’t really like anyone, after Aberama, but she tries with Finn, and Ada, and Michael. She hauls him out of the chair, and he sways a little, but he’s alright, so she tells him to go to bed and he does.

***

He wakes up and watches the dust swirl around, illuminated by the white light from the open window.

When he goes downstairs Polly’s at the kitchen table drinking tea, silent and smoking.

“Sorry about last night, Pol.”

She smiles at him, a thin and insincere thing. He nods at her and goes out.

He meets Isaiah in the Garrison, who says Arthur’s got business for them.

“What is it, then?”

Isaiah looks at him steadily for a moment. Shrugs.

“He just said to wait for him here.”

“Didn’t fucking tell me.”

It’s not a secret, at least among those as close to it all as Isaiah, that Finn’s brothers don’t tell him anything.

Isaiah shrugs again.

“He’ll be here soon. He’ll tell you then.”

Finn just about remembers a time when he didn’t know how little he knew. He remembers that his brothers, then, were a lot nicer. But there was far less to eat, and doing spells on horses only takes you so far.

And they haven’t changed that much. Tommy’s always been smart. Polly would always say it to Finn when she was in a good mood with him and Tommy had pissed her off, when Finn too young to really properly piss people off.

Arthur’s always been a bit. Well, Finn’s not sure, but the war was bad for him.

The sound of the outer door being wrenched open is conspicuous in the pub’s morning emptiness, and then the inner door is shoved so hard it hits off the wall and vibrates.

Arthur, when he strides in, is sober.

“Ah! Good! Finn, you’re here already.”

“What do you need us to do?”

“Get us a drink, will ya?”

He does. Arthur pulls up a chair for himself, motions for them to sit down.

A moment passes.

“Arthur, what the fuck.”

“We’re waiting, Finn.”

His tone is final, warns against questioning.

Finn’s chest is still smarting, a constant presence beneath the bandages, aggravated by pouring the drinks.

“You know, Finn, I was gonna ask Isaiah here to do the honours. Didn’t know you’d be here too.”

Isaiah goes to say something, maybe to apologise, but Arthur keeps talking.

“But since you are, Finn, and since you’re getting so grown up, hmm, I want you to do this.”

He’s finished his drink, doesn’t pour himself another but Finn knows he will soon.

“I’ll do it if you stop being so fucking mysterious about it, yeah?”

He grins, and Arthur grins back, but it’s Arthur so it’s not nice.

Footsteps, the creak of the door, and Johnny Dogs is pushing Billy Grade towards them.

“Here’s the man of the hour.”

Johnny Dogs is a man who has cheerfully accepted the place of violence in his life, despite never having wanted it there.

“Thank you, Johnny.”

Johnny takes that for the dismissal it is. He nods and leaves.

Finn can see the sweat sitting on Billy in drops, glistening, despite the distance between them. He smiles, and it looks like it hurts.

Finn thinks back on the last few times he’s seen Billy. What did he do?

What did he do?

“Sit down, Billy,” Arthur gestures to the table.

Billy looks towards the door. Arthur clenches his jaw, whole body stiffening.

“We’re here to talk business, Billy, now get a chair and fucking sit down.”

Billy does, grinning oddly as he lets the legs of the chair scrape against the floorboards.

Once he’s seated there’s a beat of quiet. The sweat’s rolling off of Billy now – his hands are visibly damp.

What did he do?

Maybe nothing at all, but what would the point be, then, with only Finn and Isaiah to witness it?

“We’re gonna discuss important matters now. Isaiah, would you lock the door? For privacy.”

Billy looks at Finn, who looks away, can feel the stare on him. He swallows.

Isaiah does what he’s asked like clockwork, by the looks of it just as confused as Finn.

There are times when waiting for the violence is nearly worse. Worse to watch, because Finn knows that Arthur, like a rabid dog, is blind and deaf in his anger. It’s like pleading with the rain to stop and people can tell, but they do it anyway, and Finn hates listening to it.

Billy doesn’t say anything though. When Arthur heaves himself up, gets a meat cleaver from behind the bar, Finn feels a sickening mix of apprehension and relief.

The sight of the wide, flat blade, gleaming in the dull light of the Garrison weighs the morning down even further.

“I thought it was just women and football, eh, Finn?”

What.

“Thought it was just women and fucking football. Now, brother. I’m gonna have to show you what happens when you fucking talk to people you shouldn’t be fucking talking to.”

Finn goes cold so fast he feels ill, feels like he might be trembly, shaky, faint if he tries to move, so he sits still, keeps his arms loosely crossed, ignores the catch in his voice as he says “I didn’t - ” and then the realisation hits him like a slap in the face.

_They’re shooting at a fascist._

Fuck.

Jesus.

He’d liked Billy, that was the problem. Forgotten about being a Shelby all the fucking time.

“Finn, you gonna prove me wrong, hmm? Tell me you didn’t talk? Or am I right?”

It’s obvious Arthur wants him not to have done it, and he can barely speak as he forces the words out, focuses on the wound in his chest instead of his brother’s face.

“It was an accident. I forgot.”

“Alright, Finn. Alright.” Arthur’s voice is strangely soft, an unexpectedly gentle tone, face briefly unreadable. Then he turns to Billy.

“Now, Billy. I was just gonna shoot you, but you’ve upset Tommy quite a bit, yeah, and he’s not feeling very happy, and that’s your fucking fault. Finn boy here has to learn a lesson in keeping family business to his fucking self, hmm.”

Arthur hands the cleaver to Finn and pours himself another drink.

The handle is still chilled despite Arthur’s touch, the cruelty of the metal adding imagined weight to the cleaver.

Please, don’t make me, Finn doesn’t say. I don’t want to.

“Finn, please don’t do this,” Billy’s muttering, eyes wild in their sockets. Oh, Jesus Christ, Finn can’t.

He can’t.

He can’t but he just has to. His mouth’s gone so dry it hurts when he swallows, a sharp twinge in the throat.

He looks at Isaiah, who stares back, who’s turned to stone, who also just has to.

“Start with the fingers, Finn.”

Arthur sounds choked up, eyeing Billy with revolted hatred.

Nobody moves until the eldest Shelby leans forward, pulls Billy’s unwilling arm onto the table, holds it down flat on the dark wood, makes him spread his fingers.

Fright has made Billy stupid, unable to move. His lips are moving, gaze fixed on the display of the bottles behind the bar. With a jolt Finn realises he is praying.

Arthur’s starting to look like he can’t take much more wordless waiting, and that’s probably gonna be worse for Billy, so in one move Finn brings the cleaver up, then down as hard as he can on Billy’s fingers. Hears the slam of it against the table, feels the sickening crunch of gristle and bone.

After that it’s hard to tell what’s happening because all he can hear is his older brother telling him what to do, and all he can see is Billy’s face, contorted by agonised terror, and all he can feel is the icy sweat running down his back.

There’s blood fucking everywhere, the cleaver slick with it, Billy drenched in it. There’s no air in Finn’s lungs, no feeling in his hands.

At the end, after Finn’s grabbed the back of Billy’s head and driven the cleaver through the throat, right through the neck until it scrapes the spine – Finn doesn’t look down at what he’s doing, just feels it through the cleaver – only after that does Arthur take the cleaver off him.

Isaiah has him by the shoulders, pulls him away from what was Billy. Finn hisses at the pressure of a hand against the bandages.

Arthur pats him on the back and he pitches forwards at the impact, lets the other two hold him upright.

“Get him out of here,” his brother says. “I’ll deal with the clean-up.”

Then Isaiah’s frogmarching him towards the door. His mouth is filling up with spit again and he’s worried he’ll be sick in front of Arthur on the floor of the pub.

Then they’re outside, and fuck, the weather’s worse than he remembered.

And they’re walking, and he wants to ask where to, but there’s all the spit in his mouth and it’ll all come out if he talks, but then he really is sick all over the wet, muddy street.

He can hear himself retching but he hasn’t eaten, so it’s just the burn of bile and his convulsing stomach. He’s trying to get a handle on his breathing.

“Alright?” Isaiah sounds like he’d rather be dead.

“Yeah,” Finn manages. He can’t get enough air and sounds like he’s been running.

“Good.”

He straightens up, spits, wipes his mouth on his sleeve, knows it’s easy to see how much his hands are shaking.

He sucks in a deep breath, tastes the smoke of the city, breathes out. Finally looks at Isaiah.

“I need a drink.”

***

They drink enough that Finn can no longer talk, or even think, and all he can do is see, in soft, blurred images, ignoring the sound.

His bones all seem to melt and he is left with no straight lines and no nerve endings.

He’s smiling, he suspects, a lot, because his cheeks hurt, his lips stretched thin. He doesn’t know where they go, just follows Isaiah, uses his name to get served quicker, lets his head rest on shoulders, the backs of chairs, the tabletops sticky with unwiped cider.

It gets harder and harder to pay attention until eventually he closes his eyes, lets himself fall further and further until he is far below the floor, sinking into the still dark quiet of the earth.

***

He’s too hot, and someone’s fucking touching him, grabbing at his face, his hair, his bandages.

Talking as well, and maybe there’s more than one person but he can’t make out what’s being said. The flames from yesterday night are back, and he rasps when he breathes, feels the air rattle in his throat.

Why won’t the bastards just realise he’s too fucking hot and leave him alone?

“Alright, alright. Get a towel and some cold water.” A voice floats down to him from somewhere above, out of his reach.

“We know, Finn, you’re too hot, now calm down, good man. You’ll be alright.”

He must be talking. He’s forgotten how to, though, when he tries to ask for a glass of water.

Then he’s soaking, and there’s hands at his face again, rough cloth.

He wonders if he’s gonna die, like John and Arthur. He feels like it.

“Arthur’s alive, Arthur’s fine.”

But they had a funeral for Arthur, burned the wagon and everything, what the fuck was that, he came back to life and shot Sabini, what the fuck.

He makes an effort to open his eyes but his eyelids are glued shut and it’s too hard to keep them open, let alone see.

“You’re alright,” someone keeps telling him but it starts to get too much so he stops listening and lets go, sinks back into the foggy mess of sweaty, tangled blankets and sleeps.

***

“We had a funeral for Arthur.”

“Yeah, I know we did.”

“But he came back.”

“Yeah.”

“When’s John coming back?”

“I don’t think John’s coming back.”

“Why?”

“He’s dead, Finn. He’s dead.”

“I didn’t like killing Billy Grade.”

The delirium of the last few hours has exhausted Polly. Worry has settled deep in her weary limbs. Her nephew has been drifting in and out of consciousness, talking shit about Arthur and John and Billy Grade, about prostitutes and shooting people. Polly will do him the favour of never mentioning any of it, of pretending to forget all of it.

His eyes are glassy and unseeing, his gaze sliding off of her whenever she tries to get his attention.

Finn’s illness has Polly feeling a gentle terror. It’s starting to look serious enough that she might need to tell the whole family, to prepare them for. Well.

She’s not going to tell Tommy, because something in Tommy has cracked under an undefinable, inescapable weight. He seems to think he’s dealing with it well, but they can all see, when they talk to him, that he’s not. It’s something about the way he hesitates, as if, for the first time, he is in the dark.

So she won’t tell Tommy, not yet, though he’ll be furious, as he so often is, but Ada and Arthur need to know, just in case.

***

Finn gets better. He notices that Polly looks at him oddly for a while, but Polly’s impossible to keep up with anyway, so he ignores it.

**Author's Note:**

> please comment and tell me what you thought!


End file.
